where the writers are
Restless Cat

Solitary cloud on horizon is a peaked meringue dissolving in the blue sky. Cars on the road thunder by. Son sits on a red bench in the garden and eats stewed rhubarb from an old blue tea cup missing its handle. His spoon scrapes the skin of china, it clicks and clangs. He climbs in the open window and says it's really cold and sprawls himself across the couch. He lies there wrapped in my old shawl. Gets up again and walks to the kitchen to  place the cup in the sink and run the faucet.  He is my restless cat, no longer a kitten, he is a padding prowling thirteen year old, casing the house. After these words are written down I look up to catch the cloud again, but it is gone. Dissipated into nothingness. I wonder if I saw it at all.  All I can hear now is the slam of doors and the  too loud  music and  beyond the broad tv screen of glass  there is nothing out there,  only  a pure cloudless palette, virginal yet violet on the rim but still  blue. The bluest sky.

Comments
4 Comment count
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nearing the end...

Oh, the penultimate sentence alone is worth the price of admiossion. Well done. Especially enjoyed the visually red bench and blue cup.

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Mary P, you know we all enjoy your blogs.

Surely your young'ens and your husband read them. What do they say about them?

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They just about tolerate me

They just about tolerate me Dennis. Kidding.

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Ron, I think I should have

Ron, I think I should have left this post at the intial sentence. The saying leave well alone fits here. I kept on going and the meringue sank! Oh well...